


is it weird that your eyes remind me of a coldplay song?

by nicoleh262



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pining, Ten Songs Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:51:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicoleh262/pseuds/nicoleh262
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Michael Latta develops a crush on Tom Wilson at the beginning of the 2014-2015 NHL season. Which, coincidentally, is about the same time he moves in with him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>A freeform fic composed of snapshots of Michael Latta's feelings for Tom Wilson as they develop, with some pop music playing in the background.</p>
            </blockquote>





	is it weird that your eyes remind me of a coldplay song?

**Author's Note:**

> So this isn't completely adherent to the rules of the ten songs meme, in that I decided that I needed to make a mix for these two, sought out ten songs I found appropriate, and wrote a section based on each of those songs. Because they're Latts and Willy, though, I tried to stick to their type of music (ie. embarrassing pop songs that you sing along loudly with in the car). The fic follows the tracklist chronologically (track one is section one, etc.) I have to give a shoutout to gasmsinc for the title and one of the songs: everyone should go read her fabulous fic "trumpets," if you haven't already. The mix is here (http://8tracks.com/nicoleh262/falling-in-love-to-dumb-pop-songs), and the fic is below! This is my first Latts/Willy and first real free-form, so enjoy!

Michael Latta develops a crush on Tom Wilson at the beginning of the 2014-2015 NHL season. Which, coincidentally, is about the same time he moves in with him. Mike’s bad at planning in general, but even if he had planned this, he literally could not have picked a worse time.

It’s September, and Mike and Tom have just signed the lease to their new apartment. Tom decides that they should throw a party, but he refuses to call it a “housewarming party” because “one: we didn’t buy a house, and two: we’re not a middle-class suburban married couple.” Mike doesn’t really care _what_ they call it, as long as there’s good booze, good food, and good friends. And there is.

They don’t invite many people, because their apartment is _nice_ , but it’s not that _big_. O’Brien, Schmitty, and Burkie end up being the only attendees, but they’re all Mike and Tom need. Mike gets the alcohol since Tom’s still not twenty-one (which he laments almost daily.) In exchange, Tom gets the grub: pizza and snack food, naturally. 

It’s a night of casual conversation with plenty of jokes and jibes as the alcohol flows and the music grows in volume. There’s dancing, too—if you can call it that. Schmitty’s goofiness evidently encompasses every aspect of his being, including dancing, resulting in a lot of The Lawn Mower, The Shopping Cart, and disco moves that he’s definitely not old enough to know. Burkie tries to show them how they dance in Sweden, but it doesn’t translate well: it’s mostly a lot of finger-pointing and head-bobbing. “Work better with Swedish music,” he argues lamely.

The music starts to wear on Mike after a while, so he wanders over to gaze out one of the windows in the living room. The lights of D.C. twinkle below, the Washington Monument watching proudly over the city in the distance like a shepherd does his sheep. Despite the heavy glow of the metropolis, the stars above still shine brightly, dancing as Mike’s friends do just a few feet away.

Well, most of Mike’s friends.

“Nice view, huh?” Tom says from Mike’s side, making him jump.

“Yeah,” Mike breathes, after a moment. Mike’s still staring, captivated, at the bustling city life below him before he notices Tom isn’t doing the same. He’s staring at Mike. 

Mike shoots him a quick glance, searching Tom’s face for explanation. Tom’s tipsy and has been steadily working his way towards drunk all evening. He’s got a kind of look on his face, one that Mike doesn’t entirely recognize. It’s almost like he’s expecting Mike to do something or say something, pick up on some signal that Mike’s just not receiving. It gives Mike a weird feeling in his stomach that he tells himself is just from too much pizza and liquor, even if he’s not really even tipsy, just warm. He tells himself that the warmness is also a side effect of the booze.

Tom’s still staring at him, and Mike doesn’t really know what to do, so he’s grateful when Tom breaks the silence. “Dance with me,” he says, voice low and husky. And for some reason, it cuts straight to Mike’s core and he thinks, _I’d like to kiss Tom right now._

But he doesn’t. He tells Tom, “Okay,” and they dance to whatever’s blaring from Tom’s iPod—Kesha, by the sound of it—and Mike tries to forget about the thought he’s just had. _It’s the alcohol,_ he thinks, except he also can’t help but think about how the low lighting in the apartment strikes Tom’s eyes just so, and how Tom’s hair is getting long again and curling out from under his hat. Mike knocks back a few more shots than he was originally planning to in an attempt to banish the intrusive thoughts. It doesn’t work.

The boys spend the night, Burkie taking the guest bedroom and Schmitty and O’Brien sharing the couch. They all crash at around three, at which point Mike shuffles back to his own room chugging Gatorade to soften the pain of the following morning. When Mike wakes, his head pounds not with a hangover, but with thoughts of Tom that have refused to be drunken into oblivion. Tom’s face, still wearing the expectant look from last night, lingers behind his eyelids any time he tries to close them.

 _Uh oh,_ Mike thinks.

~

They’re in the dressing room stripping down after morning skate when it strikes Mike how _beautiful_ Tom is.

Just about everyone acknowledges that Tom is hot, which he definitely is, but it’s not really occurred to Mike until now that he’s also, like, the most beautiful human being on the planet, probably. Mike isn’t sure when he started to make this distinction, but he knows there is one, and somehow Tom manages to cover both grounds. Like, it is undeniably sexy when Tom bites his lip, deep in thought, either about the play Coach is drawing up on the whiteboard or over what to (attempt to) cook for dinner that night. But he’s also undeniably _beautiful_ when he laughs, his head tilting back and his shoulders shaking. 

Often, there’s overlap between the two, such as right now, as Tom sits in the stall across from Mike, unlacing his skates. His fingers undo the knots deftly, like a skilled weaver untangling yarn. He’s bare-chested and Mike can’t help but stare at how Tom’s muscles ripple as he undresses. Droplets of sweat, evidence of a hard morning’s work, roll down Tom’s arms like fresh rain sliding down smooth green leaves after a storm. His hair, originally slicked back in typical hockey bro fashion, is now escaping from behind his ears and falling in front of his face, curtaining his eyes off from Mike’s view.

Mike realizes that, objectively, Tom is gross and needs a shower, but Mike honestly feels like he could write a poem about Tom’s beauty: unkempt, raw, real.

Mike is so fucked.

~ 

The tricky thing about having a crush on your roommate who is also your teammate who is _also_ your best friend is that it’s hard to tell where the friendship ends and the crush begins. What’s appropriate and inappropriate becomes much harder to distinguish, especially in a friendship like his and Tom’s, where they’re so co-dependent and close to each other. If anything, the co-dependency grows—or, more accurately, Mike gets more dependent on Tom. Mike used to tease Tom about being the needy one in their friendship: always wanting to do _everything_ together, inviting Mike to anything ranging from parties to the grocery store. Now, the script has flipped: Mike gets a longing in his chest whenever Tom is gone for a significant amount of time. He feels dumb: he’s twenty three, not a month-old puppy.

On top of his sad pining after his roommate, he’s also beating himself up—quite literally—over his status on the team. He’s still stuck grinding it out on the fourth line, so he does everything he can to stay there, because it’s better than the press box. He takes out his frustrations on the ice against the opposing team, delivering bone-jarring hits like they’re going out of style.

All of this self-inflicted punishment eventually adds up, though, and after a particularly brutal game against Calgary, he’s barely able to drag himself through the door of the apartment, much less through the one to his room. He flops down on the couch, every muscle throbbing, and groans into one of the throw pillows.

“You okay, dude?” Tom asks, eyeing him from the bar in the kitchen.

Mike mumbles into the pillow.

“What?”

He rolls over just enough to free his lips. “I said, I’m sleeping out here tonight. I don’t feel like moving.”

Tom frowns. “You sure? I can probably, like, help you get to your room, if you need me to.”

What Mike really wants is for Tom to curl up on the couch next to him and kiss the soreness out of his body, relieve his aching heart and his aching muscles. What Mike does, because he knows this is impossible, is wave his hand at Tom to brush off his suggestion. He’s content to wallow in the misery he’s created for himself for the night without assistance, thanks. “Nah, I’m good. Go get some sleep: we have practice tomorrow.”

Tom does, reluctantly, and only after throwing a blanket over top of Mike’s head. The couch is no less cold or empty for it. 

~

There are times when Mike thinks he loves Tom. Then he wonders if he really knows what love is, or if he’s old enough to really be in love, and whether it’s love if the other person doesn’t know how you feel. 

Mike tries to picture his life without Tom in it, and he doesn’t like what he sees. Frankly, he just _can’t_ picture it. Mike’s never really felt as close to anyone as he has to Tom. Despite the relatively short time they’ve known each other, it’s like Tom has always been there for him, to tease him and support him in equal measure, to be there when Mike can’t do it all by himself. Tom might be young, but he’s the stronger one: his confidence almost makes Mike think he knows it all, even though Mike is well aware he doesn’t. It’s that kind of stability and constancy that Tom gives him that reassures him of where he stands.

Yeah, Mike’s in love.

~

Tom can be a lot to handle sometimes, Mike will admit. He can be impatient, and he doesn’t always think through things like he should. He never shuts up, and he can get grumpy easily, and his hot temper has gotten him in trouble more than once, on the ice and off. 

However, Tom is also kind of everything Mike’s ever wanted in a boyfriend. He’s fun to be around, easy to talk to, and fiercely loyal. Mike never has to worry about much, because Tom is always there, already making the difficult decisions Mike doesn’t want to, and supporting the ones Mike does make. And, as much shit as he gives him for stupid stuff like how he eats his burger or how messy his room is, when Mike is struggling with something, Tom puts jokes aside.

Mike’s in the middle of an otherwise pleasant dream of him, Tom, and Schmitty out shopping at Target when it’s interrupted by screaming. There’s blood, and before he can process what’s going on, his friends are whisked away from him, Tom’s eyes wide and scared, and Mike is left all alone. He calls for them, but it’s as if he’s shouting into a vacuum: no sounds come out of his mouth. Everything goes black, and Mike’s eyes snap open. 

He sits up in bed, wiping sweat from his brow. His hands are shaking. He hears the scream over and over again, remembers the look of sheer terror on Tom’s face before he was taken away from Mike. Mike has no clue what happened, or what this dream is supposed to mean, but he wants to forget it immediately. He needs a distraction.

Mike slips on a pair of gym shorts and pads out into the living room, hoping some TV will help edge out the terrifying images. He jumps when he steps out of his door. He’s not alone. Tom is seated on the couch, watching some movie with Seth Rogen in it.

Tom turns his head. “What’s up, Latts? Why are you up?”

“Could ask you the same thing,” Mike says, trying to avoid the question. Tom’s still expecting an answer, though, so he fibs a little and says, “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Bad dream?” Tom guesses. Mike nods. “You look like a wreck,” Tom adds as means for explanation. “Wanna watch Pineapple Express with me? It just started.”

Mike nods again, more grateful than annoyed this time at how well Tom can read him. Tom pats the spot next to him, and Mike takes it, stretching out on the long end of the couch. He pulls a blanket over himself, props his head up on a throw pillow. It’s reassuring to have Tom right next to him, his laugh melting away the cold fear that the nightmare had put in his heart. Tom puts his arm around Mike’s shoulders and pulls him a little closer. If he’s still dreaming—and he’s not sure if he is or not—Mike thanks his brain for making this one a lot better than the previous one. 

At the next commercial break, Tom mutes the TV and looks down at Mike. “You good?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” He is, really. Tom smiles, satisfied. He rumples Mike’s hair. “Can’t have you missing out on any of your beauty sleep.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?”

Tom smirks, and unmutes the TV. “Whatever you want, babe.” 

Mike punches his thigh and is glad the semi-darkness hides his blush. 

~

They’re in the car on the way to the airport for an away game when one of Tom’s favorite songs comes on. He cranks the volume dial way up and starts to sing along just as loud.

“ _You think I’m pretty without any make-up on; you think I’m funny when I tell the punchline wrong—_ ” Mike is giggling like an idiot at Tom’s attempts to hit Katy Perry’s falsetto with his deep voice. He’s failing spectacularly, but he always does. “ _I know you get me, so I let my walls come down, do-o-own_.” 

They stop at a red light, and Tom takes the opportunity to turn to Mike, grab his hand, and sing directly to him. “ _Before you met me, I was all right, but things were kinda heavy. You brought me to life: now every February, you’ll be my Valentine._ ” Mike’s trying not to freak out, because it’s almost like Tom has read his diary (not that Mike keeps one, but what would be in there if he did.) He’s sure Tom is just messing with him, though. Mike’s stomach sinks when the light changes and Tom lets go of his hand. 

“Focus on the road and not your singing, Wilson: Papa will ground us if we’re late for our flight.” Mike hopes humor will calm the nervousness in his gut. (God, he is _such_ a teenager. It’s ridiculous.)

“Pfffft,” Tom scoffs. “Backy loves us. Well, he loves _me_ , anyway. You’re the second son, so I think the jury’s still out.”

“I’m older than you, how am I the second son?” Mike protests. They banter back and forth all the way to the airport. 

~

Tom’s a fighter. Mike is too, when he has to. He and Tom will stick up for their teammates whatever the cost, but—and maybe it’s a little hypocritical of him--it doesn’t stop Mike from worrying about Tom any time he drops the gloves.

Tom takes a scary hit when they play Columbus and flops back onto the ice with a _thud_. He doesn’t get up for a minute, and when he does, Mike can tell Tom is dazed. Mike’s on the bench, so he can’t do anything except scream himself hoarse at the official until Tom makes his way over.

“You okay?” Mike asks.

“Yeah,” Tom says, gripping the rail tightly. “I’m fine.”

Mike makes sure to throw his weight around on his next few shifts so that the Jackets get the message not to fuck with his best friend, or any of his other teammates, for that matter. They do, eventually, because the Caps win, but Mike still feels unnerved by the whole thing. He doesn’t think he’ll ever completely stop worrying about Tom the way he does, but he has to keep his feelings in check for the sake of the team, otherwise he’ll end up in the penalty box. 

Backy and the other vets like to joke that he and Tom are “basically the same person,” which is probably truer than Mike would like to admit. It’s true in the sense that they have the same likes, dislikes, hobbies, and all of that stuff, but it’s also true in that if Mike were to lose Tom—if they stopped playing together, or their friendship ended—Mike would feel like he’d lost a part of himself, like his left thumb or one of his feet were amputated. He supposed if it happened, he would adjust, but it was the kind of thing he tried not to think about too much, because he didn’t like to imagine it, despite the very real chance that it _could_ happen. Tom means a lot to Mike, in a lot of ways. He hopes Tom knows that.

~

Mike and Tom have developed this bad habit of falling asleep on each other. It’s not really a habit, per se, because it’s usually on accident, but it still happens enough that it’s not uncommon. Even though he always wishes it means something romantic, Mike takes it as a mark of how comfortable they are with each other, which he supposes is still a good sign.

On the long flight over to San Jose for a game against the Sharks, Tom surprises Mike, because this time, he actually _asks_. (Well, kind of. In usual Tom fashion, he tells Mike what’s going to happen, and Mike goes along with it because, as previously stated, he is hopelessly, pitifully head-over-heels for Tom.)

“’m gonna fall asleep on you,” Tom mumbles, burrowing his head into Mike’s shoulder. He’s been yawning for the past ten minutes and rubbing at his eyes. Mike’s surprised he’s not asleep already. “Okay?”

“Sure,” Mike says, as if he has a choice, and as if he’d choose anything else, “whatever.”

Tom settles himself in, rubbing his cheek on Mike’s shoulder like a cat, adjusting his human pillow before drifting off to dreamland. Mike isn’t sure what to do: he’s afraid any kind of movement—breathing, even--might wake Tom, so he decides to take a nap himself, figuring Wardo or Chimmer or anyone else can’t make kissy faces at him if he’s asleep. (That’s not entirely true: they could, and probably would, because sometimes his teammates were the worst, but if he was asleep, Mike at least wouldn’t have to know about it.)

Mike looks down at Tom sleeping soundly on his arm and smiles to himself. Tom’s got a very serene expression on his face, like he’s without a worry in the world. Mike can only wonder what he’s dreaming about that’s put him in such a state.

Unable to help himself, he sweeps a loose strand of hair out of Tom’s face and tucks it back behind his ear. He’s glad San Jose is as far as it is, because it means he gets to have Tom this close to him for a while. Mike leans his head back onto his chair, cheek resting gently on Tom’s head, fingers pressed against the side of Tom’s leg. Mike lets Tom’s rumbling snore lull him to sleep.

~

They’re only a little drunk when Mike decides to kiss Tom. 

(Okay, so maybe “a little” is debatable, but the point is, they both knew what they were doing.)

They’re out at a bar in D.C. after shutting out the Bruins, and everyone’s in a great mood. The music is loud, and they both have a couple of drinks, but not enough to get plastered. Tom is dancing and laughing and cracking jokes with everyone, but he sticks close to Mike the whole time. Mike is thrilled. Tom’s good mood must be infectious, because Mike’s louder than he usually is, making rounds and talking to everyone on the team. They might be off the ice, but everyone is still buzzing with energy.

When closing time rolls around, they say their goodbyes to the team, hop in a cab, and start back to the apartment. It’s dark, but the passing lights of the city highlight Tom’s face perfectly, deepening the cut of his cheekbones, underscoring his jawline. Tom’s got this kind of look on his face that Mike can’t quite place: it reminds him of the smug face Tom gives him whenever he beats him at ping pong, plus exhaustion with a kind of challenge in it. There’s something else there, too, but Mike can’t analyze it because Tom is suddenly drowsing on his shoulder, mumbling something along the lines of “are we there yet?” into his shirt collar.

It’s only once they’re in the door of their apartment that it clicks: desire. Tom _wanted_ Mike to kiss him. Yes, that’s it. The face Tom wore at their apartment-warming party comes back to him in a rush, and Mike realizes that the two are one and the same. _That_ was what Tom had been expecting him to do that night. Mike makes up his mind then that he is going to kiss Tom, right now, before he can talk himself out of it. If it turns out he’s read everything all wrong, he can always blame the alcohol, right? 

“Tom,” Mike says seriously as his roommate roots around in the fridge for Gatorade. Tom simply hums as a response. “Wilso, this is important,” he insists as Tom continues to ignore him. Exasperated, Mike marches over to the fridge and spins Tom around.

“What, Latts, I was—”

And Mike kisses him. 

It’s too sudden for either of them to fully process what’s just happened, but Mike is a little shocked at his own boldness. Tom no longer has the lazy, sleepy kind of expression he wears when he’s drunk: he looks quite sober, despite not having found the Gatorade. Mike panics, briefly, wondering if he _has_ misread this entire situation and everything is about to turn sour. “Tom, look, I—we’re best friends, and you’re my bro and all, but sometimes I can’t tell if you’re just fucking with me or if you really have been flirting with me. And it’s been messing with my head, like, _a lot_ , and I just wanted you to know that, like, if you _were_ for real, I’m totally cool with that. More than cool, actually. But I don’t wanna make anything weird, or… whatever.” 

“Oh,” Tom breathes before kissing Mike.

It’s a lot better than the first one, partly because _Tom_ is kissing _him_ , but also because it’s longer, and Tom brushes his hand up against Mike’s cheek. Mike shivers. Tom breaks the kiss to whisper, “I was mostly just fucking with you. But only because I didn’t think there’d ever be any point to me _actually_ flirting with you, that you wouldn’t be interested. So now I think I’d just like to plain fuck you, if that’s cool.”

“I think that would be more than cool,” Mike says, then stops. “Did I really just say ‘that would be cool’ to you requesting to have sex with me?” He leans his head on Tom’s shoulder, attempting to bury his mortified face. “Oh my God.” 

“Lucky for you, I have enough game for the both of us,” Tom says. The alcohol’s making him cocky, his grin smug and satisfied.

“Fuck you,” Mike retorts and wipes the smirk off of his face with another kiss. 

~

Mike wakes up to find his head on Tom’s chest, Tom still sound asleep. Tom’s arm is wrapped decidedly around Mike’s waist, as if he’s threatening anyone who would think about disturbing them, the kind of security he gives Mike on the ice every game, always having his back. He thought he knew everything about Tom until last night. Mike can’t wait to get to know everything else about Tom, experience him all over again in this new light.

Everything is the same, and yet, everything has changed. But in a good way. Mike threads his fingers through Tom’s and drifts back off to sleep with a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr at nicoley-poley, if you want to say hello! I enjoy new friends! :D


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